


Specimen Number Two

by Tozette



Category: Naruto
Genre: Crack, Madara's hair is probably the secondary character, Self-cest, Vile Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 14:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4609392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tozette/pseuds/Tozette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The silly and occasionally confusing story of how Madara met Madara and finally found somebody perfect for him. </p><p> </p><p>Spoiler: it's Madara.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Specimen Number Two

These days, the Hidden Village in the Field has been relegated to a footnote in a long and bloody history. It doesn’t follow that it’s necessarily a _boring_ footnote.

* * *

Field was founded not long after Konoha, although it was smaller and remained rather less illustrious until its untimely destruction.

It seemed like a good idea on paper. All they needed was a tiny bit of Madara, and then they could make soldiers just like him, ninja with the sharingan - but loyal to Field, not Leaf.

They’d put a lot of research into it, guarded their processes jealously, and were proud to say that they could be pioneers in this field. Once they’d developed the ability to simply clone any powerful ninja they came across, the Hidden Village in the Field would be a name to be feared.

It was, after all their preparation, very simple to get hold of a little bit of Madara. Not blood, good god no. And not semen or saliva either. No, those were intimate and personal. However…

Madara kept his hair very long.

It clogged drains and caught on things and was the terror of hair brushes everywhere, and there was actually one point in Konoha’s history when it was easier to find wayward bits of Madara’s hair around the village than it was to find, you know, actual ninja.

All seemed well, then: they had the components, and soon the Hidden Village in the Field would have the sharingan.

Their experimental technique worked beautifully. Perfectly. It was a lot of work, and took five strong ninja a week of chakra work to achieve, but finally from the rust-and-ink reek of a sealing array rose a complete copy of Uchiha Madara. It was lean and powerful, with wild hair and flashing eyes. And scars.

(Yes. Scars. There was no point in cloning Uchiha Madara without replicating the experiences that made him so formidable, after all.)

It rose and flexed its fingers in a way that made it think of talons. Its hands were strong. It took pleasure in strength.

It knew where it was, what t was. Clone. Creation. Strange new life. But beneath that knowledge was… something else.

Because it – _he_ , he thought, in a voice only half-remembered, strange and intimate and personal in his skull – remembered catching his hair on a springy new branch outside Konoha, one of Hashirama’s stupid trees, remembered turning, exasperated – yank – _snap_.

And then here.

Clone. Creation.

“Specimen two,” said the elderly man overseeing the operation, peering closely at him. “Can you understand me?”

Idly – annoyed, but idly – Madara wondered what had happened to specimen one. “I can understand you,” he said in a deceptively pleasant voice.

Then he wondered if they were going to call him by his name.

(They totally weren’t.)

(So _insolent_.)

* * *

Unfortunately, the theory of the Hidden Village in the Field did not take into account the one glaring flaw in the plan: for all that they could make an exact copy of Uchiha Madara, it was precisely that.

_An exact copy of Uchiha Madara._

The Village Hidden in the Field was a smouldering ruin before nightfall.

“They were all so weak,” he informed the silent forest petulantly, and a hare twitched its nose at him.

He roasted it for dinner.

* * *

Konoha wasn’t that far, but when he arrived at its gates, there was… some confusion.

Apparently the “real” Uchiha Madara wore armour.

Or at least clothing in general.

The ninja manning the gates were incompetent and stupid, so they had to fetch somebody with some authority. This turned out to be a man with white hair and dark eyes, who droned on in a suspicious diatribe of no earthly importance and looked at Madara like he was something that had crawled out from under –

– _Senjuu Tobirama_ , murmured the purring intimate voice of memory.

“He’s a prick,” Madara mused to nobody in particular. The voice curled up and agreed with him. It? Him. He was confused.

Well. Good.

“He is,” agreed a low, desperately familiar voice. “But that’s not to say he’s wrong.”

And, hmm, there was a knife on his skin. Fine edge. Sharp. Well-maintained.– and a wild twist of black hair at the corner of his vision, moving with the breeze.

Madara blinked once, slowly.

He turned his face carefully and…

He looked at Madara.

“They made me in Field,” he repeated, the same way he’d explained it to the gate guards and to Tobirama and now–

Red bloomed in Madara’s eyes, and his expression shuttered.

“He’s not an illusion,” said Madara, brow furrowing.

“Finally, somebody competent,” said Madara right back. _Me_ , roared that voice in its head. _Me me me me me me me._ It sounded like exultation, like hymns and glory and divinity. _Me_.

He smiled.

He could see his reflection in his own eyes, and his smile was a cracked savage thing.

There was a long pause.

Madara looked at Madara.

A breeze blew past them both, sending an enormous amount of wild dark hair fluttering.

The gate guards were evidently not that stupid, because they’d made themselves suspiciously scarce.

Tobirama looked very much as though he had a headache. “ _Pants_ ,” he suggested.

Unfortunately, a ninja was not allowed to avert his eyes from a potential threat.

* * *

For what it’s worth, the report of that incident still exists in Konoha’s archives, stained on one side with sauce from Mito-sama’s home cooked bento.

It explains the situation in specific detail, and in no place records that Hashirama thought it was _hilarious_.

He totally did, though.

* * *

Madara, upon understanding the situation, was all set to hate the strange clone of himself. While he could understand why somebody might want more of him, he didn’t exactly like the idea of being copied and distributed by Hidden Villages at random.

Except, well. The clone turned out to be practically the best kind of person, and Madara was very rational and logical and he knew that it was just – really difficult to dislike somebody who was so close to perfect?

He shared Madara’s sense of humour – which was to say that he was direct and cynical and a little bit cracked.

He agreed with all of Madara’s opinions, so he must have been terribly intelligent, too. Stood to reason, really.

He was an excellent sparring partner.

And he really, truly, _got_ Madara. They barely had to glance at one another to communicate.

He was fierce and tenacious and – well.

He was just kind of _perfect_?

(Well, he was _almost_ perfect.  Even he couldn’t brush Madara’s hair into submission. But then, neither could _Madara_. The other one. So he supposed it made perfect sense, in a disappointing sort of way.)

At any rate, the question remained: _Why couldn’t everybody be like him?_

* * *

It stood to reason, then, that when searching for a suitable sexual partner, both Madaras went looking for the best and most perfect specimens available.

There was a brief moment where one or both of them - so hard to tell, really, and _why don’t you think he thinks what you’re thinking?_ – considered Hashirama, but then they both remembered that he was appallingly foolish and desperately naive and he made them feel vulnerable and idealistic and – uncomfortable.

“Also he’s married,” said Madara as an afterthought.

But it did not take very long before their eyes fell upon one another, and then it was just so _obvious_.

* * *

They fell upon one another with an utter and thrilling lack of shame. Madara kept waiting for the idea of another person’s bodily fluids to revolt him on some level, but it just didn’t happen.

They were… well, kind of his.

Their bodies and brains were sensitive in all the same places, and they knew things about one another that they’d take to the grave.

The clone had considered this information carefully, but he suspected that Madara had not, simply because of how Madara had responded to him when he approached and pulled on his hair.

He’d leaned in, breathed in the familiar smells of smoke and sweat, then wound Madara’s dark hair around one fist and _tugged_ , hard but not rough. And, _oh_ , he’d seen the way his pupils blew wide, seen the race of blood up to his face, watched the tension in his jaw dissipate —

“There’s pretty much nothing about you I don’t know,” he pointed out quietly.

Madara made a low noise - something dark and curling and smoky. It shivered straight down his spine and coiled low in his gut, anticipatory and waiting.

“That,” he said slowly, “is true.”

There was a long pause. Calculating. Weighing.

Madara’s lips curled. His smile wasn’t nice.

Then they were upon each other, shoving and biting, nails clicking impotently against polished armour – his mouth was bleeding, _our mouth is bleeding._

Madara’s thighs hit the back of his desk where a half-finished report lay, and it should not have shocked him that this other Madara knew to kick his heels out from under him and slam him to the wooden surface.

It was sudden. It was hard. The breath rushed from him.

His nerves lit from the inside. His voice caught on something he couldn’t name.

“You should see yourself,” said Madara rapturously, dragging his nails down his neck.

He arched. The contact was – he _arched_. “Ah,” he said, suddenly and violently interested in getting Madara’s hands on him, under his clothes, dragging callouses down his flushed skin.

“Armo–” he didn’t even get all the way through the word. Madara’s fingers were deft and sure and beautifully _familiar_ on his armour and it was gone within moments, falling away like a shell.

Hands tangled in his dark hair. Eyes spun, black and red.

His heart raced.

He knew, too. He knew to pull his hair, he knew to bite his neck, to breathe foul filthy nothings into his ear –   _I know everything about you, I’m going put my fingers inside you and watch you pant. I’m going to take you apart. I may or may not put you back together._

_I promise I know how to make you wail._

He knew, somehow, that running his tongue all the way down Madara’s spine while his hands held him in place would make him gasp and swear.

They ended up with Madara’s forearm shoved against Madara’s throat, pressing to hold him down – _we like the struggle room; he likes to fight, sometimes,_ memory informed him. Madara’s fingers dipped shallowly inside Madara’s sphincter, long and careful and just rough enough, just enough –

There was thrashing. He _did_ like to fight. A broken chair, wooden leg in splinters across the floor. The struggle made them both breathe hard, left bruises and scratches, made his blood sing just under his skin.

Madara looked up at him, face reddening on one side, sure to bloom into a spectacular bruise. He panted and Madara shoved his fingers deeper inside him. He could feel the first ring of muscles, the second, twitching involuntarily, all soft velvet heat and he looked back, expecting to see those dark sharingan eyes – _fuck, I’m beautiful -_ -

Madara panted below him. Flushed face. Gasping breaths. Clenched eyes, slack mouth.

The stiff heat of his cock was right there, pressing up against Madara – and, wow, yes. Foreskin, glans, Madara with his slick fingers rubbing the plush head of his own – someone else’s? No, _his_ – penis, long sure strokes, the soft roll of flesh and –

A shocked gasp. Madara with his heel on – on _Madara_ ’s shoulder – making low helpless noises, continuous as breathing, hands clenching and hips rolling.

“Oh, fuck,” someone said, and he didn’t know who, couldn’t tell, but one of them was there - teetering on the edge of exhaustion, of over-stimulation, breathing hard with his mouth slack and eyes glazed, “Oh my – oh _fuck_.”

* * *

(Madara did, indeed, know how to make Madara wail.

And by the end of the week so did half of Konoha’s administration, because his neighbours were remarkably consistent in their complaints.

The reports are a matter of Konoha public record. If you’re the sort of person who likes to dig through piles and piles of noise complaints from years past, you’ll find it very easy to learn that the were ignored. 

The police are all Uchiha. _Incidentally._ )

**Author's Note:**

> Spawned from my own sad complaints that there was only one fic in the Madara/Madara tag on Ao3. I am satisfied with the knowledge that there are now at least two. That's right, I'm here to be the change I want to see in the world. :3
> 
> Leave me a comment to let me know what you liked. :)


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